A Masterly Murder хмб-6

by Susanna GREGORY

  ‘He was not building a tomb,’ said Michael. ‘He was building a strongbox for the treasures he anticipated would fill it when he finally became Master.’

  ‘We should go,’ said Cynric. ‘The lane is clear at the moment. We should be able to sneak out without being seen by the rioters.’

  ‘But what happens if the mob attacks Michaelhouse while we are gone?’ asked Michael. ‘I do not like the notion of being outside its walls when the trouble comes.’

  ‘Then we will have to be quick,’ said Bartholomew. ‘The whole point of the exercise is to prevent the riot from starting. Those archers on the walls will not hesitate to shoot, and I do not want to see men like Blaston and Newenham hurt.’

  ‘Or my choir,’ added Michael. ‘Isnard the bargeman, and the rivermen Dunstan and Aethelbald, are good people whom Michaelhouse has wronged. Come on, then, Cynric. Lead the way.’

  With a grin of pleasure, delighted to be back in his role of assistant to the Senior Proctor, Cynric slipped the bar on the wicket gate and led the way up the lane towards the church.

  The High Street was still deserted, although Bartholomew could hear the ominous rumble of voices emanating from the Market Square. He heard individual voices, too – that of Sheriff Tulyet, ordering people back to their homes, and of Mayor Horwoode making an appeal for peace. He and the others jumped to one side as a group of mounted soldiers thundered past, swords already drawn in anticipation of violence. Bartholomew and Michael exchanged a horrified glance and hurried on.

  Bartholomew wrenched open the door to the church, swearing loudly when the sticky latch played its usual tricks. The building was silent and shadowy. Runham still lay under his silken sheet in his coffin, and the altar that Bartholomew and Michael had prised from its moorings remained on its side. As far away from Runham as possible was the fake Suttone, covered hastily with a sheet and lying on two planks. Below him was a bowl, strategically placed to catch the blood that still dripped from the body.

  Wilson’s grave had once been a boxlike affair of grey stone, topped by a simple and attractive piece of black marble. Since Runham had arrived, the box had been encased in some elaborate wooden carvings, while the life-sized gilded effigy of Wilson, sneering at the world as it rested on one elbow and gazed across the chancel, had been grafted over the marble slab.

  ‘I do not like this, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, pausing with a metal lever poised over the tomb. ‘Supposing opening this grave releases the contagion again, and the plague returns?’

  ‘Runham probably had it open, and the Death did not strike him,’ Cynric pointed out. Bartholomew could not help but notice that the book-bearer was nevertheless keeping a respectful distance from the tomb and its contents.

  ‘But what if you are wrong?’ he asked, hesitating. ‘What if Runham hid the treasure elsewhere – with a friend, for example?’

  ‘Runham did not have any friends,’ said Michael, exasperated. ‘And people will die unless we are able to produce this damned treasure soon. I cannot think of anywhere else Runham might have stored the stuff, and we do not have time to hold a disputation over it. All we need to do is lift that slab and have a quick look underneath.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Stand back, then.’

  He began to poke around with his lever, seeing that the mortar had been loosened all along the back. Cynric was right: someone had been inside the tomb. Bartholomew began to heave. The slab lifted slightly, and then dropped back. He tried again, but it was too heavy with the brazen effigy reclining on top of it.

  ‘We need to lift this thing off first,’ he said. ‘We will never get the lid open with this revolting carving weighting it down.’

  Cynric and Michael watched him chip away the mortar that held the effigy in its place, but made no move to assist when he staggered under its weight.

  ‘It is curious how loath I am to touch it,’ said Michael, reluctantly stepping forward and wrapping his hands in his sleeves before he handled the statue. ‘It reminds me so much of Wilson himself, that I want nothing to do with it.’

  ‘If you are not squeamish about opening the man’s grave, I hardly think you can be fastidious about touching his graven image,’ said Bartholomew. ‘Put it on the floor, over there. We do not want to damage it and then have more of Wilson’s cousins coming to rectify matters.’

  ‘We do not,’ said Cynric with a shudder.

  Once the effigy had been removed, prising open the slab was easy. The silence in the church was broken by the noise of clattering hooves. More soldiers were hurrying to the escalating confrontation between Sheriff and mob in the Market Square.

  ‘Quickly,’ urged Michael, white-faced. ‘If Cynric thinks these rioters mean business, then Tulyet will not be able to control them for much longer.’

  ‘I will hold it up, while you slip your hand inside the tomb and see what you can feel,’ said Bartholomew. Michael and Cynric exchanged a nervous glance.

  ‘We will feel bones, boy,’ said Cynric with a shudder. ‘We will not do it, will we, Brother?’

  ‘We will not,’ said Michael with firm conviction. ‘Just lever the whole thing off, and then we can look inside with no need for poking about with our hands.’

  ‘It is too heavy,’ said Bartholomew. ‘And if we take it off, we will never get it back on again. We cannot leave an open grave – of a plague victim, remember – in the church where our friends come to pray.’

  ‘Then we will lever and you can feel,’ said Michael, snatching the metal rod from him. ‘You are more used to that sort of thing than us.’

  Bartholomew sighed, wanting the whole matter over and done with. ‘Hurry up then, before I change my mind.’

  Cynric and Michael leaned on the bar, and Bartholomew peered into the dark space within. He could see Wilson’s coffin, already beginning to crumble and crack with age, and he fancied he could detect the paler gleam of bones within it. It stank of dampness and mildew and ancient, rotting grave clothes, and he felt himself gag. Before he could lose his nerve completely, he thrust his hand inside, careful not to touch the coffin, and felt around. Triumphantly, he emerged with one of the College’s silver chalices. He rummaged again, and found two silver patens and the lovely thurible that the founder had left to Michaelhouse in his will.

  ‘You were right,’ he said, smiling up at Cynric. ‘This is exactly where Runham hid his treasure!’

  ‘Now why did I not think to look there?’ said a voice from the shadows of the nave.

  Bartholomew rose to his feet fast, holding the thurible like a weapon that could be hurled and looking around him for the owner of the voice. Cynric and Michael seemed as bewildered as he was.

  ‘Now, now, Matthew,’ said Adela Tangmer, stepping out from the shadows and giving him one of her open, cheerful grins. ‘Put down that lovely work of art before you damage it. Thomas Caumpes has his crossbow loaded, and he will not hesitate to use it, if I ask him – which I will if you start throwing around goods that I intend to sell.’

  Michael gazed at the vintner’s daughter in astonishment. ‘You?’ he exclaimed. ‘You are the secret relative whom Suttone was prepared to kill for?’

  Behind her was Caumpes, still wearing the blue tabard that marked him as a Fellow of Bene’t College. He was white with shock and fear, and Bartholomew noticed that the crossbow was unsteady in his hands. His eyes looked haunted, and Bartholomew suspected that the traumas and anxieties of the past few days had made him unpredictable, and that his shaking fingers might even loose a quarrel by accident.

  Adela beamed with her long teeth. ‘And why not, Brother? Do you think I am insufficiently attractive to warrant such devotion?’

  Michael clearly did: he gaped at the woman’s plain features, her baggy brown dress and practical riding cloak, at a loss for words. More horses pounded past outside, indicating that Sheriff Tulyet intended to quell the rebellion with all the resources at his disposal.

  ‘Are you leaving the town?’ the monk aske
d, gesturing to the saddlebag thrown over Adela’s shoulder. ‘I do not blame you. A riot is brewing. But if we can get this silver to Michaelhouse, we may yet prevent trouble.’

  ‘My leaving has nothing to do with that,’ said Adela. ‘My father is driving me to distraction with his insistent whining about marriage. I might be obliged to stab him if it goes on much longer, and I do not want to do that.’

  ‘Stab?’ asked Bartholomew, appalled. ‘So, it was you who killed de Walton and Brother Patrick, not Caumpes?’

  ‘I told you it was not me–’ began Caumpes. Adela silenced him with a wave of her hand.

  ‘When you escaped from Bene’t’s burning hut, I thought our game would be over,’ she said. ‘But then you started chasing shadows that were nothing to do with us, and Caumpes acted as decoy to lead you away from where I hid in the trees. I was able to escape – after I made an end of de Walton, of course. I did not want him talking before I was ready.’

  Bartholomew thought it likely that poor de Walton had known very little. He was sure the man had not guessed it was Adela behind the plotting that had so damaged his College.

  ‘And Patrick?’ asked Michael. ‘He saw Suttone smothering Wymundham, so you killed him, too?’

  Adela gave a careless nod and pulled a handful of metal spikes from her saddlebag. ‘I stabbed him with one of these – the implements I use for plucking stones out of horses’ hooves. And I will kill you with them, too, unless you do as I say.’

  ‘So that was why the shape of the wound was so unusual,’ said Bartholomew, recalling the round injury in Patrick’s back.

  ‘But why did you tell us about Patrick fleeing from Holy Trinity Church?’ asked Michael. ‘We know now that it was no corpse that made him run away.’

  ‘She wanted to make us look more closely at Bene’t, so that suspicion would be removed from her,’ said Bartholomew, before Adela could answer. ‘It was a ruse.’

  She gave a quick grin of begrudging approval at his deduction. ‘Patrick did flee the church – but because he was afraid of being associated with Wymundham’s drunken state, not because Wymundham was dead.’

  Michael began to edge away from the tomb. ‘I see. But much as I would love to have the answers to this mystery, there are more pressing matters to attend. If we do not return to–’

  ‘Stay where you are,’ said Adela sharply. She jumped, as a sudden roar of angry voices came from the Market Square.

  ‘Listen to them,’ said Michael, desperately ‘Those are the workmen Runham hired to build his new courtyard. They plan to destroy Michaelhouse unless we can–’

  Caumpes released a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Then there is some justice in this mess! Michaelhouse will pay for what it did to Bene’t.’

  The reminder of the wrong perpetrated on Bene’t seemed to steady Caumpes. He took a firmer grip on his crossbow and his expression changed from miserable bewilderment to bitter determination.

  ‘Let us go,’ said Bartholomew, appealing to Adela. I do not want to see good men like Robert de Blaston killed by the Sheriff’s soldiers.’

  ‘No,’ said Adela. ‘I have no intention of handing over what Wilson stole from my dying mother to pay Michaelhouse’s debts.’

  ‘Please, Adela,’ pleaded Bartholomew. ‘Too many people have already died for Wilson’s treasure.’

  ‘You are wrong,’ said Adela harshly. ‘Not enough people have died – including you, Brother.’

  Michael seemed startled to be singled out for such venom, but then he nodded slowly. ‘Matt’s suspicions were right about my recent illness. You told Suttone to exchange the salve Matt usually applies to infections for a more potent one, and you persuaded Caumpes to tamper with the scaffolding near my room. But what have I done to earn such hatred?’

  ‘I did not want you to investigate Patrick’s death before Suttone had had the chance to retrieve my mother’s stolen treasure.’

  ‘Do you feel no remorse for Suttone’s death?’ asked Bartholomew softly.

  ‘Suttone was a fool,’ said Adela. ‘He knew nothing about horses and thought the reward for retrieving my stolen goods was my marriage to him. And him with great fat legs like a pig!’

  ‘Whom will you marry? Caumpes?’ asked Michael.

  Adela regarded him askance. ‘Do you think I would go to all this trouble just to put my now considerable wealth at the disposal of some man to drink and gamble away?’

  ‘Was it Caumpes who betrayed Suttone to Wymundham?’ asked Michael. ‘Wymundham knew all about Suttone – that is why Suttone smothered him.’

  ‘I did not–’ began Caumpes, casting an anxious glance at Adela.

  Adela silenced him by raising her hand. ‘Actually, I told Wymundham about Suttone. Not deliberately, of course, but he fed me some of that disgracefully strong brew that Bene’t uses to drive out the cold – tastes like horse liniment.’

  ‘Widow’s Wine,’ said Bartholomew heavily. ‘That stuff seems to crop up all over the place.’

  ‘It should not be allowed to crop up at all,’ said Adela. ‘Anyway, I became a little indiscreet – at a respectable guild meeting, too, held in Bene’t’s hall! I embarrassed my father dreadfully, but I do have a weak head for wines.’

  ‘You mean you betrayed Suttone because you were drunk?’ asked Bartholomew, astounded.

  ‘Basically. I did not mean to, but the wine was strong and Wymundham was an attentive listener.’

  There was another yell from the Market Square. Bartholomew cast Michael an agonised glance. Unless they acted soon the rioters would march on Michaelhouse and people would die.

  ‘We must–’ he began.

  ‘As long as Michaelhouse is under attack, this church will be safe,’ interrupted Adela. ‘We will remain here until the violence is over.’

  ‘Let us go,’ pleaded Bartholomew. ‘We may be able to–’

  ‘Enough!’ snapped Adela. ‘I do not want to hear any more about this wretched riot.’

  ‘The way Suttone spoke, I thought he referred to someone who had died in the plague,’ said Michael in the brief silence that followed.

  ‘Something of me did die during the Death,’ said Adela softly. ‘I learned that it is unwise to love someone who might be snatched away without warning. It is that knowledge, more than anything else, that makes me determined to put myself in a position where I never have to marry.’

  The triumphant braying was gone from her voice, and Bartholomew saw that, yet again, the pestilence had a good deal to answer for; it had stolen away people with whom Adela might have led a contented life.

  Caumpes, meanwhile, was nervous again. He was sweating profusely and his hands shook almost uncontrollably. Bartholomew glanced at Cynric, but the book-bearer’s shocked, disgusted face suggested there would be no help from that quarter.

  ‘So what did Wilson steal from you?’ asked Michael, breaking into Adela’s soulful introspection.

  ‘During the Death, I persuaded Wilson – who was on his way to visit his lover in St Radegund’s Convent – to give my mother last rites. When he had finished, I noticed he had relieved her of all her jewellery. What kind of man steals from the dying?’

  ‘I suppose he thought she no longer needed it,’ said Michael. ‘Things seemed different during the pestilence, when no one knew whether they would live another day, or which of their friends or relatives would die before sunset.’

  ‘That is irrelevant,’ she hissed angrily. ‘The jewellery was not his to take. My mother might not have needed it, but she did not intend it to end up in the vile claws of a corpse-robber. She wanted it to be mine.’

  ‘So, what will you do when you have it back?’ asked Michael. ‘You cannot stay here.’

  ‘I will go to Ireland, where I will not be pestered by proposals of marriage. But my plans are my business and none of yours.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Michael hastily. ‘But the day is wearing on, and you should be on your way. If Master Caumpes will kindly lower his crossbow, we will–’


  ‘Oh, no!’ said Adela. ‘Caumpes’s crossbow remains, thank you. But there will be no need for violence. If you co-operate, I will let you go. I have one question to ask and as soon as I have the answer, I will leave under the cover of this riot. My trusty steed Horwoode is waiting outside. You can do what you like.’

  But her steely gaze told Bartholomew that, if things went according to her plan, he, Michael and Cynric would not be leaving the church alive, one question answered or not.

  ‘What is your question?’ asked Michael, his eyes fixed uneasily on the quaking Caumpes and his wavering crossbow. Bartholomew swallowed hard, wondering what would happen first – his death at the hands of Adela, or the attack on Michaelhouse that would see a bloodbath in which scholars and townsmen would die.

  ‘I want to know where Runham hid his treasure,’ she said. ‘I see you have some of the College silver there, but what have you done with the rest of it?’

  ‘Suttone took only what he considered to be yours,’ said Michael in sudden understanding. ‘He even returned the excess to Matt later, because he did not like the notion of stealing.’

  Adela grimaced. ‘That just shows what happens when you engage a friar to help you. A word of warning, Matthew – if you ever decide to commit a robbery, choose Cynric to assist, not your friend the monk. Clerics have scruples that you would find frustrating.’

  ‘I am not so sure about that,’ muttered Bartholomew, who knew Michael much better than she did. ‘But who was Suttone?’

  ‘A Carmelite friar, just as he told you,’ said Adela. ‘He left his Order because he found his brethren lacking in morals. We are distantly related, and he came to my father’s house to beg for work. Before my father could set him to carrying wine barrels, I suggested something that appealed to his sense of justice. I asked him to take the place of one of your new Fellows, so that he could rectify a great wrong.’

  ‘Then he chose the wrong man to impersonate,’ said Michael wryly. ‘The real Suttone was a thief, according to Master Runham.’